


Someone's Been Sneaking into Petey’s New Apartment

by EZChase



Series: The Marvelous Misadventures of Petey-pie and Wade [2]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Author doesn't know how to write Deadpool, Author doesn't know how to write the Deadpool thought boxes, Blood and Gore, But Daddy Deadpool will fix that, But it's Wade so he'll be okay, Daddy Kink, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Deadpool, Deadpool is TRYING to be a good boy, F/F, F/M, Felicia also likes to stir shit up, Felicia is a Good Bro, Glorified Suicide, Graphic Depiction of Suicide, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Wounds, Gratuitous Cussing, How does one go about writing Deadpool?, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infinity War did not happen, It's Barely Even There, Like so much angst, M/M, MJ is a Good Bro, Miscommunication, NYC bashing, Ned Is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker is NOT an innocent baby penguin, Peter Parker is an idiot when it comes to love, Peter and Wade do everything backwards, Peter can be an asshole, Peter has horrible decision making skills while drunk, Peter is shit at taking care of himself, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sorry Not Sorry, Spidey and Black Cat hook up, Suicide, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author Still Regrets Nothing, Underage Drinking, Wade Wilson Has Issues, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade is NOT okay, because he's so damn random, buckle up cus things get real dark, but it's because Peter was drunk, but it's only for a second, even though Deadpool loves to see him that way, finally some communication, like blink and you'll miss it, loving Peter does NOT make him okay, mentions of supernatural, some Avengers mentioned, tags will be added as I go, the author thinks they're funny, these clueless men are going to kill me, what even is tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-07 07:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15214394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EZChase/pseuds/EZChase
Summary: In which Wade feels like he’s no good so he stays away from Peter as much as he’s capable of. Then Peter drunkenly calls him one night, and Wade can no longer avoid seeing his Baby Boy. Hijinks ensue as Wade uses Peter’s apartment as a hideout and tries to subtly take care of Peter at the same time. Both these boys are idiots—but they’re idiots in love.I recently read a fic where Deadpool had broken into Peter’s apartment to take care of him. And there’s a lot of fics where Deadpool breaks into Spidey’s apartment just to have a place to rest and heal. I kind of love the imagery of Peter being shit at taking care of himself, not only because he lacks the means to do so, but also because he runs himself ragged on a regular basis trying to make ends meet (and also, he’s yet to figure out how to adult). So, it struck me, why not have our favorite Pool-boy, knowing that Spidey’s apartment is relatively safe, use his apartment as a sort of safe house and also subtly take care of him while he’s at it.I hope you lovelies enjoy!





	1. The First Time it Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose not to use archive warnings, but please, for the love of all things holy, please read my tags before you read any further. They are there for a reason. Also, a heads up for my neurodivergent folk who have a hard time processing tags, this fic contains Rape/Non-con elements and graphic depictions of depression and self-harm/suicide.

Six months had passed since Wade shot that man right in front of him.

In that time, Peter went to regular group therapy sessions as Spider-Man at the Avenger’s compound in upstate New York (he was able to gain coping mechanisms for his PTSD, his survivor's guilt, and even for his claustrophobia from being trapped under a building while fighting Vulture). He’d found a new apartment (the old one had been ridiculously small for its price), finally broken it off with MJ (because there hadn’t been anything but sexual attraction between them and they were both too needy to do the casual thing), and was nearly done with his undergrad degree in Biochemistry.

Peter was nineteen, spent every Tuesday at Aunt May’s watching _Golden Girls_ reruns, went on patrol, went to work at Stark Industries where he’d become friends with the Avengers (both as Peter Parker and Spider-Man), quit selling pictures to the Bugle (Stark gave him a raise for making a breakthrough in genetic regeneration), and hung out with MJ and Ned in his free time. He was doing good.

Sort of.

Well…

Not really.

It’s been six months and he’d left Wade nearly the same amount of (actually, truth be told, _more_ ) messages Wade had left him before he’d fallen off the face of the planet  (or didn’t feel inclined enough to reply, which Peter tried not to think about).  

The guilt of how he’d overreacted sometimes crushed down on him like that building once had, until he couldn’t breathe, and he had to lean against a wall for support. He knew— _knew_ that Wade had needed him that night, and he’d blown him off because he’d been too in his own head to see the signs. If he’d just calmed down enough to talk it out, Wade would still be there, and Peter would still have his best friend (while MJ and Ned were also his best friends, it was different because…well, they weren’t _Wade_ ).

He took to leaving daily, sometimes nightly, voicemails and texts on Wade’s cellphone. (He assumed Wade either listened to them or deleted them immediately because the boxes were never full when he called or sent the messages.) He’d tired out all his “I’m sorry’s” and his “please call me back’s” and his “I was wrong’s”.

Instead, he told Wade about his work and about how his therapy was going (using everyone’s hero names, just to be safe). He told Wade about his patrols and the old ladies who’d buy him food when he helped them with directions or helped them cross the street or saved their animals from various states of danger. He told Wade about MJ and how it didn’t work out with her, but her new roommate, who happened to be none other than Black Cat, was actually pretty chill and he was done judging people by their pasts or what they did to survive this world. He told Wade about his newest fascination with trying all the hole-in-the-wall restaurants he could find, just in case Wade ever wanted to go to them, and how he asked May to make him lemon meringue pie only to be told it was strictly reserved for Wade. He told Wade about his epic team-ups with Daredevil and the Human Torch and how Wade would’ve loved teasing the stoic, red leather suited man and would’ve had a field day with flirting with Johnny Storm who was openly pansexual and a major flirt himself. He told Wade about his issues with his past and what he wanted to do for his doctoral thesis.

It took Peter until month five (of the six) to realize he’d inadvertently revealed his identity over the phone multiple times in his ramblings.

It took him only a minute to realize he didn’t care.

As month six approached, Peter found himself in a rut so deep, even his wall-crawling ability wouldn’t be able to help him out. So, as clichéd as it was, he went to a skeevy bar that was known for looking the other way when underaged college kids decided to walk in and decided to drink his troubles away goofing off with Ned and MJ. They, of course, invited their roommate, Felicia Hardy.

Spider-Man and Black Cat had always had a certain...sexual tension to their encounters. It was mostly due to the cat being an incorrigible flirt and being into the bondage scene while Spider-Man always, kind of, flirted back because he couldn’t help but respond to her quips with wit of his own and left her bound with his webs (and sometimes gagged) if she hit a nerve. He was a healthy red-blooded teenager who appreciated a good catsuit that left nothing to the imagination and _she_ was a healthy red-blooded teenager who appreciated a good _spandex_ suit that left nothing to the imagination.

Consequently, the tension from their alter egos transferred to their unmasked identities.

It didn’t help that, after having hung out with him three times, Felicia cornered Peter with the knowledge that she knew he was the web-slinging vigilante (“really, it isn’t all that hard to figure out if one looks closer, Spidey,” she’d said, running a finger down his chest).

That had been four months into Wade’s radio silence.

Now, every time they were in a room together, Felicia made it her mission to flirt with Peter, and Peter just tried not to encourage her because “damnit, Felicia, I have a secret identity to keep for a _reason_.”

Ned and MJ, for their parts, couldn’t figure out _where_ Felicia’s and Peter’s overpowering, venereal chemistry had come from. To them, he was the king of the geeks, with his “clumsy” nature, dorky personality, and bookish tendencies. _She_ was way out of his league, with her flirty veneer, calculating mind, and altogether hotness. And, for that matter, they couldn’t figure out why Peter seemed so adamant to have the two of them in the same room at any given time, to act as sexual deterrents, when Peter had never shot her down and didn’t seem inclined to do so.

So, one warm June night, Peter found himself sitting at a bar, doing shots with MJ and using Ned to impede Felicia’s increasingly bold advances.

“Pshh, that’s nothin’ MJ,” Peter said as MJ knocked back three shots of Patrón within five seconds. “I can do that in m’sleep.”

Peter took his three shots of tequila like a champ and then ordered six more shots, but this time filled with whiskey. MJ’s grimace made her disgust clear to everyone close to them.

“You tryna get me drunk, Parker?” she asked as she sipped her vodka cranberry to wash away the taste of the tequila.

“Hell no, these are for me,” Peter answered as he protectively pulled his shots to his chest, just as MJ reached for one. “Get your own, woman.”

“Damn Peter,” Ned said from Peter’s other side. “I didn’t know we were celebrating anything.”

“Does having the wish to get drunk with friends really need a celebration?” Peter asked. Then he tipped all six shots down his throat as fast as he could.

“That’s enough for me!” Felicia cheered. She stole Ned’s vodka tonic and downed it in one gulp with a sexy smirk and a wink, as payment to Ned.

Peter smiled at her antics and ordered two rounds of Zombies for himself. He hated the taste of them because drinking the rum cocktail was like drinking liquid heartburn, but they were the most alcoholic drink the bar sold that was cheap as fuck and he wanted to get _wasted_. That’s why he’d gathered them all in the rundown bar. However, the truth was, with his accelerated healing, he metabolized the liquor before it even had time to take effect. This was the reason he didn’t normally drink, because it did nothing but make him have to piss. However, he had a secrete ace up his sleeve.

“’Kay guys,” Peter said, patting MJ’s shoulder and hopping off the stool he’d been parked on all night. “Gotta take a leak. Be back soon.”

“Don’t break the seal!” Ned called after him, but it was just for effect. Ned knew he was Spider-Man which meant he knew Peter couldn’t get drunk.

Peter walked into the men’s bathroom and hid in one of the three stalls.

He pulled the flask (the one he’d stolen from the Avenger’s compound that morning) out of his back pocket and took a moment to study the polished silver. It was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand and it had elegant Asgardian runes carved onto its front. Peter felt bad for stealing the thousand-year-old mead from Thor, but they were cool enough with each other, at this point, that he was sure the blond man wouldn’t mind. Thor tended to be the most chill Avenger, aside from Hawkeye, and Peter just knew it had to do something with spending a childhood growing up with the likes of Loki.

Peter uncapped the lid and the scent alone was enough to knock any mortal man out. He, however, just pinched his nose and swallowed the whole thing in a few sips.

The effect was immediate.

He stumbled into the wall of the stall and tried to hold himself steady with the sticky hairs on his hand. Laughing with the rush of success and alcohol, he pocketed the flask and headed back out to join his friends, stumbling along the way.

He slid into his seat with a large grin stretching his lips wide, slung an arm around MJ’s shoulders, and sipped at the Zombie that sat waiting for him.

“He broke the seal,” Felicia snickered, as she slid into the small space between Peter and Ned. Ned just turned a concerned gaze on Peter.

“You okay, buddy?” Ned asked as he started to settle his tab. Peter finished his first Zombie and moved on to the second.

“Rain as right, sunshine,” Peter sighed. “I can go aaaaaall niiiiight looooong. All niiiight!”

“Oh…kay, well I think I’m ready to head home,” Ned replied. He watched as MJ began to nod off, leaning heavily against Peter. “MJ, you ready?”

“Mmm, yeah,” she said, sliding out from under Peter’s arm.

“You comin’ guys?” Ned asked Felicia and Peter, when neither one of them moved.

“Nah, Imma gets shitty faces,” Peter said, patting Ned’s hand, missing, and almost falling off his stool. Felicia grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him back up to his stool.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Felicia purred when Ned’s concern doubled, judging by the look on his face.

Ned nodded because Felicia was generally a nice person. He turned to lead MJ away, but not before he whispered, “please be safe, Pete.”

“Then there were two,” Felicia said when Ned and MJ were gone. She pulled Peter’s straw from his mouth and placed it in her own. “Ready to get trashed?”

“Like a fuckin’ white girl,” Peter replied with a giggle.

They ended up drinking until the last call and then went to a liquor store where Felicia, who’d just turned twenty-one a month ago, bought them a lot of cheap alcohol and led the way back to the three-roomed apartment she shared with Ned and MJ.

They drank well into the morning. Peter absently noticed that Felicia had stopped drinking, and was just handing him bottle after bottle, but Peter didn’t care, because he was so drunk he didn’t even remember his own middle name.

And then she randomly caressed his cheek.

One drunken, flirty thing led to another drunken, flirty thing until, somehow, Peter found himself handcuffed to Felicia’s bed and thrusting up inside her wet folds while she rode him like it was her job.

He would later remember begging her to let him cum and feeling slightly cold and empty and _wrong_ after orgasming. However, as it was, he passed out several moments later, so he didn’t have time to analyze that feeling.

When Peter woke up, it was to a major fucking migraine—it felt like someone had strapped a jackhammer to his eyes and was just steadily going to town on his brain. He opened his eyes to see where he’d ended up and immediately regretted it. Bile filled his mouth and he had a helpless moment of trying to figure out where to go before a small trashcan was shoved under his chin and he puked up the contents of his stomach.

“That’s attractive,” came a familiar, smooth soprano.

“The hell happened las’night?” Peter groaned, rubbing his eyes with his hands and eventually looking up at Felicia. Her wet, platinum blonde hair had been braided down her shoulder and dipped into the valley between her breasts. She wore a silk black robe that stopped at the tops of her thighs, showing of miles of smooth, milky skin. Peter was eighty-nine percent sure she wasn’t wearing a thing under her robe. His mouth went dry. “Why am I naked?”

“You don’t remember?” Felicia’s laugh was like music, it was so contagious. Peter smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “Well, for a while we drank and laughed, then we came back here, and you got all misty-eyed about someone named…Nate? Clay? I can’t remember. Then we fucked. It was great by the way.”

“Shit.”

Peter cringed as flashes from the night before appeared in his mind.

He vaguely remembered walking back and didn’t remember talking about Wade (that’s the only person in his life that he could’ve gotten “misty-eyed” over or that rhymed with the name Felicia barely remembered) at all. He did, however, remember the sex. While it had been good, he also remembered feeling like he didn’t belong there, and he hadn’t really liked the handcuffs—didn’t even remember Felicia putting them on him. But there was something…he was missing something—else.

He’d been in a bathroom, he remembered that.

Leaned up against the wall while trying to keep balance. He’d had…his cellphone pressed to his ear by his shoulder, using his hands and feet to keep himself steady.

He vaguely remembered crying so hard snot had come out of his nose while saying, “you fuckin’ promised. _Promised_ , ya asshole. Tha’ you wouldn’ do this shit ev’fuckin’ again. Why? _Why_ won’t you call back?”

…shit.

He’d called Wade while sobbing like a heartbroken idiot. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Felicia tossed him his halfdead cellphone which pulled him out of his musings.

“Uh, y-yeah, I remember.”

Peter opened the device and choked back the sudden feeling of acute sadness that gripped him when he noticed he had zero messages and zero voicemails.

Felicia had never been one for small talk, and, after a moment of studying Peter’s face, pointed to a door to the far left of her sparsely furnished bedroom.

“Bathroom’s through there. I have a pair of shorts and a shirt you can wear, cus your clothes are ruined after last night,” Felicia said, walking to her dresser and pulling out a men’s football jersey and a pair of shorts, that, on _her_ were probably comfortable, but on _him_ would be booty shorts. Peter had half a mind to knock on Ned’s bedroom door and borrow his clothes, but he honestly just wanted to go home, curl up in his own bed, and sleep for days.

“Thanks,” he said, grabbing the clothes and retreating to the bathroom to take a much-needed shower.

By the time he came out of the bathroom, Felicia had left the apartment altogether, leaving a mug of still warm coffee on the counter in the kitchen, with a note that said: “It was fun, Spidey, but I’m not your type. No hard feelings. Let’s hang soon. : D”

Peter smiled.

He liked how casual and blasé Felicia was about everything including her sexuality, her profession, and her identity. Peter almost envied her for how carefree she seemed, but then he thought about what it’d taken to get her to that point and stopped himself from being resentful. He was just glad she still wanted to be friends, it seemed, because she was a cool person to play video games and hang out with. She just usually didn’t do  _feelings_. Besides, he was almost positive that MJ held a torch for Felicia, and, if MJ ever got the courage to say something, he thought the two women would be perfect together.

Peter drank the coffee, gathered his discarded, stinky clothing, and left the apartment as quietly as possible (which was pretty fucking silently since his job description sometimes relied on stealth).

When he got to his apartment, he tossed his dirty clothes into the ancient washing machine that had come with the small, one-bedroom. He then headed to the kitchen, trying to figure out if he’d had ramen leftovers from his dinner two nights ago when he noticed something was…off about the place. He scanned the living room, but the coffee table still held all his classwork (he tended to use the living room as an office more than a lounge area), and he didn’t have a television, so it was no surprise to see one missing.

Feeling jittery with his Spidey Sense whispering _wrong, wrong, wrong,_ Peter headed to his bedroom to check out what was throwing him off. His bedroom was the same as it had always been, barely big enough to fit his bed and his dresser, with no closet to speak of. He’d hung posters on the walls to cover mildew and other suspicious stains, but nothing was out of place. He went to the bathroom, and, besides seeing the roll of toilet paper nearly gone, nothing was wrong there, either.

Shaking his head, Peter went back into the kitchen, ignoring his Spidey Sense, and opened his fridge to try and find the ramen leftovers. He was sorely disappointed to see his fridge completely empty save for a lone packet of mustard he was pretty sure had been there before he’d moved in. He opened the cabinet door next to the fridge, knowing it was a futile effort, but hoping he’d be wrong. He found a dead cockroach and a plastic spoon he didn’t remember putting up there.

Peter sighed.

The truth was, while Stark had given him a raise, which covered what was lost when he’d quit the Bugle, Peter still barely made enough to cover all his expenses even when he refused to pay for air-conditioning or heating, especially because he needed the money to repair his Spider suit more times than not. This meant that, sometimes, (okay, majority of the time) Peter went without food (unless he dragged himself to May’s, but then he’d have to sit through a barrage of questions as to why he wasn’t eating enough, or sleeping enough), even though he probably shouldn’t, considering his healing factor caused him to eat more than a normal young adult his age. The problem was, that while his healing factor needed the fuel to heal his injuries, it also kept his stomach from eating itself, compounding the matter entirely.

Plus, he’d blown most of his last paycheck on the booze from the night before. Now Peter really didn’t have the money to buy groceries.

Peter let out another world-weary sigh as he walked into his living room and curled himself into a ball in the corner of the couch, hoping he could just will his hunger away. That’s when he finally noticed what had been bothering him. There, on one of the sheets he’d written lab calculations, was a small crimson splatter.

Frowning, Peter sat up and examined the tiny blood stain.

It was no bigger than a fingernail, and the angle of the splash suggested it’d come from something right above the paper. Like someone had been reading the notes and the blood had dripped down their hand or arm. The only problem was, no one knew he lived in this new apartment save May, his friends, and Stark Industries (where they sent work mail.)

Peter stood and frantically searched his apartment with new eyes. Now noticing the cheap, thrift store rug he usually kept in the living room to cover a suspicious blood stain, had been replaced. Yes, by a very similar looking rug, but it was different all the same.

With this new knowledge, Peter walked back into the bathroom, remembering that the toilet paper roll had been full when he’d last left his apartment. He noticed a tiny smudge of blood on the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. He opened the door to the cabinet that was duct taped (blue with little spiders because Peter thought it’d been funny when he’d bought the roll) to the wall above the rust-stained sink and saw that, leaning up against his first-aid kit, was a small Deadpool plushie.

Peter’s grin nearly hurt with how wide it split his face.

Of course, Wade would do some sort of apology-acceptance-thing in such a subtle, awkward manner. Of course, he would.

Peter slept with the Deadpool plushie tucked under his head that night, and every night, for the next several weeks. Until it stopped smelling like gun oil, mint, and Mexican spices.


	2. The One Where He Stocks Petey’s Empty Fridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, so I decided to try something completely new. That is to say, this whole chapter is from Wade's point of view. Hopefully, this will explain a few things that the last chapter didn't touch on. I hope all you lovelies enjoy it!
> 
> Thought boxes:  
> White is the brackets []  
> Yellow is the parentheses ()

New York City was overrated.

First of all, the weather was utter shit.

In the summer everyone was bound to sweat a fuckton in the humidity that came from being trapped under giant smog clouds, only to enter an even hotter subway (to fuckin’ sweat _more_ and stink the place up with their marinating juices), and when they _finally_ got into the right Goddamn car, it’d be super-air-conditioned, so everyone would freeze. The winters were so cold that people had to wear everything they owned, only to enter a hot as fuck train and sweat like stuck-fuckin’-pigs under their heavy-ass clothes, then they’d go back outside and freeze in their sweat. When it stormed, the puddles were deeper than they looked, and it was never clear if they were puddles of rain or puddles of sunbaked urine.

Second of all, the fuckin’ subway system, which could also be called “Underground Hell Tunnels,” was the _worst_.

There were rats that ran across feet on the subway platforms. Old guys tried to hock their broken wears to unsuspecting tourists. People accidentally ran into others they knew, but didn’t like to talk to, and had to stand awkwardly together for five to ten minutes as they waited for the right car. Plus, where the fuck were people supposed to stand if dancers and street performers were doing their thing all over the place? (Fuckin’ flash mobs, man. They suck ass when they’re makin’ you late.)

Fourth of all [actually it’s third of all. Learn how to count, fuckin’ moron] the city always smelled like a combination of rotting food, sun-baked shit, and month-old kitchen grease. Construction projects took, like, two decades to finish. There were alien invasions every other month, jacking up the taxes when all the buildings inevitably got demolished, _again_. Supervillains ran amok because they targeted the group of rag tag heroes who’d just happened to decide that New York should be their base of operation; heroes who felt they were better than everyone else, just because they had America’s Darling leading them.

(We’re looking at you, Cap.)

[What about the Fantastic Four?]

(The Fantastic Four don’t count because Johnny Storm is too damn hot to be rude to, even if he does look an _awful_ lot like Captain Tight-ass. _Cough, cough,_ Chris Evans _, cough, cough_.)

[We’re not supposed to know that, stupid. Wrong universe anyway. That Johnny isn’t part of the MCU, even if the author wants to believe it. Now let the writer lady do her thang.]

(Fuckin’ traitor. But fine. Haha. _Butt_.)

However, as much as New York City sucked ass, there was one defining factor that made living there worth it.

Spider-Man.

Or rather, Peter Parker’s _utter_ lack of self-care.

So really, it’s no surprise that Wade Wilson found himself in the heart of that same, disgusting city, carrying two plastic shopping baskets through a deserted grocery store at three in the morning.

Wade whistled to himself as he grabbed several apples and carefully placed them into a bag before setting them in the basket in his left hand. He’d already loaded the other one down with as many perishable foodstuffs as he could find that had actual nutritional value beyond filling stomachs with cardboard.

Wade Winston Wilson was nothing, if not a food connoisseur.

(How about a sex connoisseur. We love the sex.)

That too.

[ _The_ sex? Have you been watching _Supernatural_ again? Plus, you don’t even know what connoisseur _means_.]

White’s tone was longsuffering and tugged Wade’s lips into a smile—not that anyone would be able to tell, as he wore his Deadpool mask.

In fact, Wade was decked out in full Deadpool regalia, with a pair of black and red, noise canceling Beats headphones on his ears, listening to 90s pop classics. He’d just gotten back from a two-week mission from S.H.I.E.L.D. which had him scouring the globe for some useless artifact that Hydra had stolen, _blah, blah, blah._

In the six months he’d kept himself away from his Baby Boy, he’d taken S.H.I.E.L.D. up on their offer of keeping him employed through less…murder-y ways. They’d even kept him at the same starting salary as his mercenary work, so in the long run, he was actually _making_ money, since S.H.I.E.L.D. always had a mission for him and the mercenary work hadn’t been continuous [even less so, now that we can’t unalive anyone]. Not that he needed the money, because he rarely bought things that weren’t food or weapons—he preferred, instead, to _steal_ most of the things that caught his eye.

(Including Spidey’s perfect, glorious ass.)

Thinking of his Baby Boy always made a stab of guilt-hurt appear somewhere around his chest.

[It’s called a heart.]

He shook his head as he picked up a small plastic bucket of strawberries. Did Peter like strawberries?

(YES! Everyone loves strawberries! Take them!)

[Except Ms. Potts.] White sighed like he was constantly reminding Yellow of that fact.

(Oh shit, you’re right. But we know Petey-pie better than Iron Douche knows the lovely Ms. Potts.)

If Yellow had a head, it would’ve nodded in finalization.

“Yeah, we do!” Wade answered, chuckling as he tossed a few bananas into the basket with the strawberries and apples. Nothing but protein and vitamins for his Baby Boy.

Wade’s iPod [the one we’d stolen from that ugly motherfucker at the Hydra lair] suddenly switched to Hollaback Girl.

“Well that’s ironic and _not at all_ lazy writing,” Wade said, as he began to sing along to the song under his breath.

However, the song just made him think back to the first time he and Peter had texted, and he’d lied and said his safe word was “bananas” (that was _not_ a lie, DP, you promised!). Thinking about texting the younger man just made him remember all the times he’d read Peter’s apology texts and listened to his “I’m sorry” voicemails. Which made him remember that last voicemail he’d gotten that’d nearly broken his heart (are we a pubescent tween now?) with how utterly, gut-wrenchingly miserable Peter had sounded.

Truth be told, he’d never thought Peter had _needed_ forgiving.

 _Wade_ was the one who’d violated Spider-Man’s moral code (bad Deadpool!). He’d killed, when he’d told Spider-Man he wouldn’t. He’d tried to say he was sorry through texts and voicemails, and even went by Peter’s place to say it in person, when he’d finally woken up from the bullet he’d put in his own brain [good Deadpool!], but he’d moved out.

[I mean, come _on_ —it doesn’t take a _genius_ to put two and two together, plus Peter and Spider-Man have both always been too comfortable around us for the amount of separate time they’d spent with us.]

(Wait, wait, wait. We _knew_ the _whole_ time?! Not just after those incriminating, though fuckin’ hella cute, messages?!)

[Well _I_ knew from the start and Pooly knew after the third meeting. _You’re_ just a giant fucking idiot, Yellow.]

(Hmph. Rude.)

“He’s right, ya know,” Wade snickered to himself, as he continued browsing the shelves of the small grocery, hoping to find more things he knew Peter liked, in order to make sure the younger man would actually eat. 

So, after realizing he wouldn’t be able to say sorry and that Peter would probably never want to talk to him again, he spent the next two months in a downward spiral of hate [more than the usual self-loathing] and sadness (more than the usual bouts of crippling depression) which found him, more times than not, on the business ends of Clyde and Bonnie.

It was just by chance that he looked at his phone right before biting another bullet in the second month of his self-imposed exile, and saw the messages from Peter and Spider-Man. But mostly from Peter. He didn’t dare to text back because he wasn’t sure he could be there for Spidey and _not_ kill anyone who was a hairsbreadth away from blowing his pretty brains all over an alley wall. But the messages did help him out of his God-awful slump enough to drag his ass to S.H.I.E.L.D. and ask (beg) for a mission. Soon he found himself slicing, but not unaliving, S.H.I.E.L.D. enemies and retrieving their data or whatever thing S.H.I.L.E.D. needed to be retrieved that week.

(We want to get into a certain Spider’s pants and we can’t do that if we go unalivin’ just because we wanna—just kidding, I always wanna unalive things!)

[I was _almost_ worried there, for a second.]

(Aww Whitey, you _do_ care!)

[Shut the fuck up. Fuckin’ asshole.]

Of course, he forgave Peter a long, long time ago. But, he was determined to stay away, because he just wasn’t good for the hero’s hero that was Spider-Man. And he refused to corrupt his Baby Boy or make him reevaluate the morals that had made Deadpool fall for him in the first place.

(Wait. Fall for? Are we in love?) Yellow asked, his voice slightly panicked.

[Sadly, it looks like it,] White sighed.

He’d loved the updates Peter had gotten used to sending him. Loved that Peter didn’t even realize he’d accidentally revealed his identity. Those messages were what kept him going when he was in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere [I think it’s bum-fuck, but tomato potato] healing pieces of himself because the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents sometimes left him stranded if he didn’t return to base quickly enough, those fucking douche canoes.

But then he’d received that drunken voicemail and all bets had been off.

Because, _dammit_ , he had _promised_ Peter he wouldn’t fuck off to fuck knows where without a word. And he _kept_ his promises, thank you very much.

Besides, the way Peter had sounded…well, Wade never wanted to hear Peter sound that way again.

He’d actually been in the middle of a mission in Guatemala when he’d peace-d out and hightailed it back to the States.

He’d known since the day Peter moved in, where his new apartment was. It wasn’t stalking, he was just keeping an eye on his Baby Boy.

By the time he’d made it into Peter’s apartment [with the spare key Peter always left in the flowerpot on his window sill, like an _idiot_ ] he’d been missing one of his arms. His intention had been to wait until Peter got home, so he’d sat on the floor next to the couch and had occupied himself with reading Peter’s handwritten lab notes, which hadn’t been easy because of his spidery (heh, spidery) scrawl. However, he’d noticed that he’d gotten blood all over Peter’s tacky thrift store carpet, so, he’d moved to the bathroom. At which point the food he’d had on the hella sketchy plane [I told you not to eat that chicken] made a second appearance in the form of, well. He’d almost used up Peter’s whole roll of toilet paper.

After that, he’d gotten a call from a former employer who really wanted to scare the shit out of one of his subordinates, but the job was time sensitive and Deadpool had to leave immediately.

That’s why he decided to leave the plushie, a calling card if you will, to let Peter know he hadn’t gone ignored. He’d made sure to leave the Deadpool plushie he’d stored in one of his pouches a long time ago, next to the first-aid box, hoping Peter would see it whenever Spider-Man needed to be patched up.

Then he’d replaced Peter’s ugly ass rug.

 _Then_ he’d gone through Peter’s cabinets for food because healing an entire arm made him fucking  _hungry_. That’s when he’d realized that Peter didn’t have anything to eat in his entire apartment.  

And so, two weeks later, Wade was shopping for groceries for the man.

(And now the readers are caught up to DP’s POV.)

[Shut _up_ , Yellow. We weren’t supposed to _acknowledge_ it.]

(Aw shit. I’m sorry, Whitey.)

It didn’t take Wade long to finish shopping and pay for the items, before he was headed to Peter’s apartment. He knew Peter would be out because it was during the patrol time Peter had set up, and consequently told Wade about over one of the many messages he’d left.

Wade quietly snuck in, just to be sure, and unloaded all the groceries into Peter’s fridge and bare-boned cabinets. Then he set about making spaghetti, burgers, and Piroshky,  because he knew that some nights Peter didn’t have the time or energy to make food for himself, but he could easily heat stuff up.

Taking care of Peter like this gave him all kinds of warm fuzzies in his stomach and helped quiet the boxes in his head. Plus, he liked seeing how his influence affected the man.

Even before the whole Shooting the Mugger in the Head Incident [are we really calling it that?] Wade had made sure to take care of Peter in all the ways he knew how. He’d make sure Peter had a good night’s sleep, going so far as to cuddle him when he got nightmares [well, he _did_ seem less likely to get them when we did that]. He made sure Peter ate actual food and got homecooked meals when he wasn’t at May’s (yeah, because his beautiful ass always looks better when he’s had a good meal, so bouncy and _thicc_ ).  He made sure to patch Spidey up when he started showing up at Wade’s for help [didn’t you actually cry that one time, DP?]. He even took care of making sure Peter had enough things to do so that his mind, which ran faster than a bullet (yay! Bullets!), wouldn’t tear itself apart on the days he didn’t have work or school.

So, yeah, he kinda had a domestic kink.

Or maybe it was a taking care of Peter kink.

Either way, it was one of his favorite things to do. Especially because Peter himself was so bad at it. Wade wasn’t sure if it was because Peter always had something better to think about than taking care of himself, or if it was because he didn’t have the means, or if Peter just didn’t have the time. Regardless, after seeing the gauntness of Peter’s lanky frame and the hollowness of his cheeks and the loss of his perky ass, (Gasp! That’s a fuckin’ _crime_! Kill the person who did that!) [Petey did that.] (No! Don’t kill Pete. Never that.) right before Deadpool had left on his latest S.H.I.E.L.D. mission, he’d promised himself he’d start taking care of his Baby Boy again.

By the time Wade finally had all the food boxed up in labeled Tupperware, finished cleaning the dirty dishes that had been in the sink for Thor knew how long, and placed a small throw pillow, with the Deadpool symbol on it, next to the coffee pot, it was nearing five in the morning and he needed to leave, or risk running into Peter.

He’d just made it to the roof of a nearby building, settled the scope of his favorite rifle on the window of the living room (which had great access to the kitchen _, mm-mm-mm_ and that fine ass, looking less fine now, but always a delight) when a light turned on in the apartment.

Wade watched through the scope as Peter, wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs, walked into the kitchen and dug around the freezer. Wade tensed when he saw the giant fucking bruise that ran from the top of Peter’s left shoulder blade, wrapped down around the left side of his ribs to his stomach, and dipped even lower. Either he’d been hit by Rhino’s horn or he’d taken a massive fall from an un-godly height.

(Kill the person who left that on him. He’s only allowed to have _our_ marks on his pretty skin.)

[I agree. It was either Rhino or Goblin. You know where both live.]

“Maybe later,” Wade seethed, as he watched Peter grab something small from the freezer with a triumphant fist pump.

Apparently, Peter had been searching for an ice pack, because he wrapped it around the tender area, relaxing his shoulders in contentment. Then he opened the fridge with a scrunched expression Wade interpreted as him expecting the worst [I don’t blame him, judging by the state of his fridge before we’d come by.]

Wade watched in bated breath as Peter did a double take at all the food in his fridge. He turned his head to the side to take in the whole apartment and finally noticed the throw pillow next to the coffee pot.

Peter turned to face the window, as if he’d known Wade had been watching, and let a large, relieved and warm smile light up his bruised and battered face.

Content with this small sign of gratitude, Wade packed up his rifle and made his way back to his apartment.

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach the whole way back because Wade couldn’t help but keep thinking about the way Peter had smiled for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I just want to reiterate this: these SpideyPool stories I write are just to get me back into writing again. 
> 
> A few of you have already asked me to continue to update, and while I love that you like them enough to encourage me to keep going (I really, really appreciate it), I don't want you guys to get mad if I suddenly don't update. I've had a sudden bout of inspiration, which is why these stories are being completed so frequently, but it may put me on to my own original story ideas. 
> 
> I just wanted you guys to know that I love Wade and Petey and the updates will come whenever I find the time to write and post. But fear not, I'm still obsessed with their love story and we have more Deadpool and Spider-Man movies to look forward to and get more material from. 
> 
> I love you all for your support. :D Stay amazing, my lovelies!


	3. The One Where He Gives Petey Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to Peter's POV. Just a heads up everyone, I think I'm gonna do a POV switch every other chapter. Enjoy, lovelies!

Peter groaned in relief as he eased onto his couch, using the newly acquired Deadpool pillow to soften the cushions enough for him to relax without worrying about pulling the stitches in his propped-up leg or the multiple bruises along his sides and stomach.

It had been a few days since Wade had broken into his apartment, for the second time, to leave all the food (like _so much_ food.) Peter still couldn’t stop the smile that crossed his face at the amount of thought it must’ve taken for Wade to buy all that food (he’d gotten all of Peter’s favorite foodstuffs) and how much time it must’ve taken Wade to cook the rest. It wasn’t that Peter was opposed to eating healthy, it was just that a bag of chips cost less than a head of lettuce—but Wade had, apparently, hooked him up with both.

However, eating comfortably for only a few days, and then going back to living like he had (from paycheck to paycheck) wasn’t ideal. So, he’d resigned himself to conserving as much of the food as he could, because he wasn’t sure if this random act of kindness from Wade had been a one-off. Plus, he was too stubborn to rely on Wade stocking his fridge for him; he hated taking charity (even when May pressed a few rolled twenties into his hands as he left her house, he always found a way to get the money back to her.)

Peter wanted to curse his decision to moderate how much of the food he ate.

He’d been badly beaten up from a run in with Rhino, that night Deadpool had left the food in his apartment, but then the next day, Captain America had called for his help to take care of Doctor Doom’s Doombots that’d been terrorizing the city and its citizens. The day after that, because Parker Luck was a thing, and because it was always _bad_ luck (and Peter was never able to catch a _break_ ), Venom escaped police custody (Peter tried _not_ to think about his three-week stint as the symbiote’s host which had happened three months into Wade’s radio silence). Of course, Spider-Man went to deal with both of those situations and, of course, he came away with even more bruises, a stab wound to his left thigh, a split lip and black eye, a few broken ribs, three broken fingers, and, not to mention, a dislocated shoulder.

That was why Peter now sat with his leg propped up with stitches in it and riding the high of several painkillers. The painkillers and multiple wounds he had would normally only take his healing factor, at most, several hours to get rid of. That is, if he ate enough and rested. However, Peter hadn’t had the luxury of either until this very moment, because he finally had a free day to take it easy.

Peter groaned as he shifted, causing pain to spike… _everywhere_.

He angerly shoved a large forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, ravenous and too high to care how much he ate.

He was peculiarly irritated at that moment.

He was mad that he’d gotten hurt. Annoyed that he couldn’t seem to find enough money to feed himself and had to rely on the not-so-charitable nature of his ex-best friend. Vexed by the fact that all he wanted was to fall into said best friend’s arms and let Wade take care of him like he knew Wade could. And he was also furious that Wade was back and still wouldn’t answer his messages.

Even though it seemed like Wade wasn’t too upset (and dare he believe Wade had forgiven him?) since he’d come back in the first place (and was taking care of him like he used to), Peter couldn’t help but feel lost as to what to do. Because to him, it seemed like Wade only came back because Peter had reminded him of the promise he’d made all those months ago about not vanishing without a word.

That thought sent something dark and _hurting_ into Peter’s stomach and he chose to ignore it and fill the hole and bad taste it left with the food Wade had given him. In no time he’d demolished the rest of the spaghetti, ate all of the salad he’d meant to save for the next three days, and had moved onto the pizza he’d made last night that was supposed to be his lunch for the next week and a half.

It didn’t take long before his eyelids drooped closed and he fell into a deep sleep (food comas did that to people.)

He was startled awake by the sound of his phone going off.

He sat up and the sudden change in his posture caused a sudden bout of nausea and dizziness to wash over him. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was puking into the toilet. Tears streamed down his face, a reflex from his stomach rejecting the food he’d just ingested, as well as from the sudden and intense throbbing at the back of his head.

When he could finally breathe without spitting up bile, he stood with a pained groan, washed his mouth out with his knockoff brand of Listerine, and limped back into the living room to check his phone. It’d stopped ringing while he’d been busy throwing up, but it started back up again just as he staggered to the coffee table where his phone sat charging. Peter groaned as his overworked muscles stretched and some of his broken ribs were jostled while he bent down to grab the phone. He tried to read the name on the screen, but it was too blurry, and the light hurt his eyes, so he decided to take his chances.

He slid the green button to the center of the screen and answered, “Go for Parker.”

“Peter?” came Aunt May’s unmistakable voice. “Peter are you okay? You sound like you’re sick.”

“Oh, May!” Peter brightened his voice as much as he could and pushed off from the couch, using the momentum help him shuffle into the kitchen in search of more painkillers. “I’m peachy keen, jellybean.”

May let out a small laugh at the phrase Uncle Ben used to say, like he knew she would. Peter took that moment to pull the phone away from his mouth, so he could sigh in relief and cover his groan of pain—each step feeling like tiny knives were being stabbed into his sides and the wound on his thigh burning.

“Peter? Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” May asked as Peter opened his fridge and grabbed one of the grape sodas Wade had put inside. “Are you eating enough? _Sleeping_?”

“Yeah, May, ‘course,” he answered, finding his nearly empty bottle of extra strength aspirin on the counter by the stove and downing the last eight pills with a swig of grape soda. “In fact, I just ate spaghetti, and I’m about to go to bed. Thank God for professors calling in sick.”

Peter limped his way into his bedroom, only to trip on a pair of jeans he’d left on the floor and fall into the wall. He covered the receiver with his broken fingers as he let out a quiet howl of pain, trying to be considerate of his neighbors and the fact that May could hear him.

“Peter, it’s noon and you’re going to _bed_? You know what? Never mind. It’s just, I’m so worried about you, dear. You’re always tired when you come home to visit, and you always look, well, _forlorn,_ for lack of a better word. Is that Mr. Stark making you work too hard, Peter? I’ll have words with him if—”

“Mr. Stark actually let me have the day off, May,” Peter said, his voice much higher than it normally was as he tried hard not to let the pain come through.

He didn’t tell her that he’d cashed in one of his sacred sick days or that Stark had asked him not to because the project they’d been working on was time sensitive. He didn’t tell her that he’d almost told his boss, who was surprisingly really understanding on most days, to go fuck himself. Instead, he slid into his blessedly soft bed and hid his head under his pillow because the sun was too damn bright and the noise that was barely filtered from his closed window was too damn loud and…he may have also received a mild concussion, he realized.

“Well…alright. But you should come over and have dinner with me, at least,” May said, and Peter could actually hear the worry in her voice.

“May, I can’t come by tonight, but I promise to come by this weekend. Okay?” Peter said as his eyes slid closed again and he snuggled into his bed, holding the Deadpool plushie to his chest.

“Okay Peter, make sure you do. I love you, honey.”

“Love ya too, May.”

He’d barely hung up before he passed out again.

When he woke up, there was a grocery bag full of pain meds sitting on his nightstand. Along with that was an envelope with a crayon-drawn Deadpool symbol on the front. He wasn’t even surprised, at this point, to find the stuff waiting for him.

Peter grasped the envelope and pulled out the papers inside.

The first, second, and third pieces of paper were instructions. One detailed how to deal with a dislocated shoulder, one explained how to heal broken ribs, and the other was information on which painkillers were for what and when to take them. Apparently, Deadpool had gone to a superhero (supervillain?) doctor to get the extra strength stuff for people who had healing factors like Peter’s. All the instructions were written in a blocky, all capitals, handwriting he knew was Wade’s.

The last piece of paper was a note that read: “You need to eat, Baby Boy. The food’s not going anywhere, promise.” It also contained a crayon drawing of a Deadpool wearing a French maid outfit, with the words “P.S. I cleaned your apartment for you. Love, Big Red.”

The note made him smile since it was a shout out to the first time they’d met.

Peter leaned over to tack that note up on the cork board he kept next to his bed with the last note Deadpool had written him, along with Wade’s card, and the Spider-Man and Captain America costumes he still had. Peter was slightly embarrassed that Wade had seen the knickknacks he’d kept from their encounters over the years. However, when he sat back, he saw that Deadpool had tacked up a picture of his own on the board. It was the one they’d taken at ComicCon last year.

Warmth infused Peter’s chest at the sight of it. Maybe all wasn’t lost with Wade after all.


	4. The One Where He Does Nothing At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought boxes:  
> White is brackets []  
> Yellow is parentheses ()

Two months.

Two months Wade had kept an eye on Peter, stocked his fridge with groceries, and used his apartment as a place to heal up in (it’s always nicer to wake up from a head wound in a place that smells like home.)

To date, Wade had actually been over to Peter’s no less than eighty-five times [some days we go back after healing and make Petey something nice for dinner.]

Wade always managed to get in and get out, before Peter came home or woke up from whatever nap he’d fallen into. Most times Wade left something to let Peter know he’d been there. Sometimes, he simply left a note, sometimes he left Deadpool and Spider-Man memorabilia or food, sometimes he left Hello Kitty stickers and Band-Aids. Honestly, there was no telling what he’d leave Peter, but it was always with his usual flair for dramatics, so Peter would know it was him.

But sometimes, sometimes Deadpool didn’t leave anything at all.

Those were his bad days.

It was usually when he knew Peter would be out for majority of the day and he’d go there to regrow his brain—unlike gunshot wounds to the head, these Bad Brain Days™ were usually reserved for if his entire head got crushed and it needed to grow back, or if he got decapitated and needed to grow his head back, or if he lost all but his torso and needed to grow it back. On these days, (luckily, they don’t tend to happen often, thank fuckin’ Thor) he usually had to have his friend Weasel pick him up and take him to Peter’s. However, the problem with repeatedly getting your head crushed in [how is that not _already_ a problem?] was that it created holes in the memory and made the things Wade was usually able to block out, or had disassociated from, come back in full force when he was blind, deaf, and totally, royally, defenseless.

 On those days, he really hoped Peter never saw him like that because he had PTSD worse than the entirety of America and Canada combined, and would likely try to attack him.

On those days, he needed to _see_ Peter like he needed to breathe, but it was usually after he’d healed and was a rooftop away, watching through the scope of his rifle.

Luckily, this time was not a Bad Brain Day™.

(What. The. Actual. _Fuck_? You really had me going there for a sec, writer Lady. Shiklah’s ass on a soggy tortilla chip dipped in mayo.)

[That really was fucked up. Damn.]

(Fuck. Okay.)

It was a normal Tuesday night in early August and Wade knew Peter would be gone for a while since he had to patrol later on Tuesdays because he went to visit May’s and always stayed late. So, having already _recovered_ from a Bad Brain Day™ (and there it is. Just when I was getting my trust back) Wade had decided to make Peter something nice that took extra love and care, and that would keep his hands busy until his Baby Boy was due home.

He’d decided to make Peter some ribs with a tart cherry barbeque sauce and sides of mac’n’cheese, green beans, and mashed potatoes. That would keep his hands moving for a while and would keep his mind from dwelling too long on the horrible memories he had of his younger days until he was able to disassociate again.

Well, that’s what he’d _planned_ on making anyway.

He’d just mixed the sauce in a bowl, when his hand spasmed because the sauce looked a bit _too_ much like his own blood had when those dicks at Weapon X had whipped him so much he’d barely had a back left, then left him to hang for two days, nearly causing him to asphyxiate from the pressure on his lungs.

Wade dropped the bowl.

The russet liquid splattered the floor, the cabinets, and the small breakfast bar that jutted out of the wall.

[Smooth move, you fuckin’ pizza faced clutz!]

White howled with laughter.

(Yeah, asshole. Next time do everyone a favor and bite a bullet before you decide to do shit like that, fuckin Freddie Kruger nightmare.)

Yellow snickered and brought to Wade’s mind the sweet release Bonnie and Clyde promised.

“Shit, fuck, ass,” Wade said, clutching his head—mask-less because he’d had to regrow it—and squeezing it as if that would get the voices to shut up. “I was—it was somthin’ nice for Petey-pie and I—”

(You’re so fuckin’ useless Wade. The hell does a young twink like _him_ want with a testicle with teeth, like _you_ , anyway?)

[You should show him your butter face before it’s too late. Let him see what he’s got humping his leg before he decides to settle.]

“No—no, we’re just friends. Besides, he wouldn’t want _this_ ,” Wade said, sliding down the cabinets until his ass was on the floor and he was gipping his head so hard his skin bled where his nails dug in. “And I’m not here for that anyway. I only wanna make him happy and—”

(You keep lyin’ to yourself, you mewling fuckin’ quim. But we know who, and _what_ , you are.)

[A nightmare that deserves to be _punished_.]

(Yeah, you killed that dude after you told Spidey you wouldn’t. You’re a sorry sight, you week-old avocado, hate-sex offspring.)

[Yeah and he didn’t talk to you for _weeks_ after. What would he do if he knew _all_ the shit you’ve done?]

(So just _end_ it already, you ugly sonofabitch.)

“Not here. No, no. Not in Spidey’s—”

“Wade?”

Peter’s voice was groggy and rough and was like a ray of sunshine in the darkness that’d descended upon Wade’s mind. The boxes still hurled insult after insult, but with Peter’s appearance, Wade was better able to ignore them. He had to.

“Heya, Petey-pie,” Wade murmured, forcing his voice to be steady. He stood and looked up to see Peter’s face scrunched in confusion.

And, Thor help him, Peter was only wearing a pair of tight boxer-briefs. Miles of his lightly tanned skin was on display, as well as his lean muscles, and, fuck, tousled cinnamon colored hair that screamed “come hither” and “pull me” and “please, Daddy”.  

Wade swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth.

“What’re’ya doin’ here?” Peter mumbled, his eyes drooping shut even as he stood.

Wade moved out behind the breakfast bar and pulled Peter into a hug as he lead him back to bed.

“Thought you were gonna be out, sleepy head,” Wade said, forcing down the heat that gathered low in his stomach as Peter crawled up his bulky frame and clung to him like he was a wall the hero was used to crawling.

“May’s outta town,” Peter replied, his voice muffled by the t-shirt Wade had stolen from Peter, as the shorter man pressed his face into Wade’s chest.

Wade couldn’t help running a hand through his soft as fuck hair and laying a gentle kiss to the top of Peter’s head.

“Okay, Baby Boy, you just get your perky lil ass back into bed, hmm?”

As they entered the bedroom, Wade gripped Peter under his muscular thighs (wanna mark ‘em up so bad with our lips and teeth and tongue—Jesus Christ how’s he _not_ getting laid regularly?) and pulled Peter off with a bit of effort, as he’d stuck himself to Wade with the sticky hairs on his body. It took some time, but he finally detached Peter and laid him down on the bed as gently as he was capable of. Then he gave Peter the Deadpool plushie to cuddle [he’s been sleeping with it regularly since we’ve been wrapping it in our gloves] and pulled Peter’s blanket up to his chin.

“Mmm, love tha’ name,” Peter mumbled, snuggling against the plushie.

“What name?” Wade asked as he turned to leave. “Baby Boy?”

“Mmhm— _yeah, Daddy_ ,” was Peter’s response.

“Good to know Petey,” Wade said, as swallowed thickly and quickly walked out of the room. “Sweet dreams, Baby Boy.”

Wade was quick to clean up the kitchen and put the ingredients back.

It looked like today would be one of those Bad Brain Days™ after all. Wade left Peter nothing when he quietly abandoned the apartment.

When Wade got back to his own apartment he took a shower and then folded the clothes he’d stolen from Peter and hid them under his pillow. Then, naked as the day he’d been born, Wade fell into his favorite Lay-z-boy, reclined into the comfy leather, picked up Bonnie from the stand next to the chair, and shot a bullet into his brain, as was per his usual suicide ritual.

He dreamed of Peter’s sweet, sweet ass and muscular thighs and pretty voice moaning “more, Daddy, _please_ ”, for once, in silence.


	5. The One Where Everything Happens

The day before his twentieth birthday, nothing exciting happened.

Sure, he’d finally been able to make a breakthrough in his nano-gel nerve regenerator that could help damaged or severed nerves grow along the spinal cord, as well as finally figured out the equation required for his amygdala suppressors to work (that, when used by someone like Bruce Banner, could control anger enough to never let the Hulk out, if he wanted). Yeah, Stark had sat there beaming like he was Peter’s father on graduation day as he gave Peter a blueberry from his own private stash and also gave him a large raise, a fulltime job (instead of being an assistant like he had been), as well as a bonus for having survived Stark Industries (and subsequently, the Avengers) for two whole years. Yes, May and MJ had thrown him a small, but lovely, birthday party, with Ned and Felicia in attendance.

However, then a Skrull attack happened and Peter was too busy fighting off aliens to even think about the fact that the person he’d really wanted to hear from hadn’t made a peep in nearly three weeks.

Besides a really weird dream Peter had had which basically consisted of Wade, for once mask-less (though Peter wasn’t sure that he had an accurate idea of what Wade’s face looked like, even though he’d seen the man’s skin multiple times), tucking him into bed like a child and Peter calling him “daddy” which…no, that did not do _things_ to his stomach. _Not at all_. Wade hadn’t done anything but keep Peter supplied with food. He hadn’t even made him those glorious home-cooked meals in that time, either.

It’d been nearly three months since Wade had come back, and nearly a year since they’d last talked, and Peter wanted ( _needed_ ) to see Wade.

Sometimes his yearning for the antihero was so strong it _hurt_ , but Wade had yet to answer any of the messages Peter kept sending him, and their only conversations were one-sided, random gifts Wade left for him in his own apartment.

In that time, Peter had done some digging and had been genuinely surprised to find that Deadpool hadn’t killed (or even maimed) anyone since the night he’d shot Spider-Man’s would be murderer. Which meant that the day before Peter’s twentieth birthday would make it a year since Deadpool had kept the deal of no killing, except for that one time. Which made Peter feel like even more of an ass than usual.

His distracted thoughts about Wade were what allowed one of the Skrull soldiers close enough to stab him in the leg before his Spidey Sense had him kicking the soldier in the face and webbing him to the ground with the last of his web fluid. The battle only lasted for an hour, as many of the Avengers had been in New York for some sort of mission briefing, but Spider-Man was still exhausted by the time he got home.

When he finally staggered into his apartment through his bedroom window, he was a bit battered, but not nearly as bad as he’d been before Wade had made it his one-man mission to take care of Peter.

Peter immediately limped to the shower and peeled off his suit, grimacing at how the green blood from the Skrulls he’d fought had soaked into the spandex and now stained his skin. He scrubbed himself off in the shower, put on an oversized shirt that, for some reason, smelled like Wade and gingerly pulled on the pair of shorts he’d never gotten around to giving back to Felicia. He then grabbed his first-aid kit, refiled the web fluid in his web shooters, and headed into his living room to suture the hole in his leg, since that was where the best lighting was at, in the whole of his apartment.

After that, he promptly passed out on the couch, his fatigue pulling him into sleep’s warm embrace.

He’d been dreaming about being stuck in an _Alice in Wonderland_ musical, with him playing the March Hare and Wade playing the Mad Hatter when the sound of his apartment door slamming closed woke him. 

He sat bolt upright and hissed at the pain that shot through his leg when he jumped over the back of the couch and clung to the wall, holding his arm out to shoot a wad of webbing at the intruder. These days he always kept his web shooters on, as he’d designed the new models to look like bracelets and he never knew when he’d need to use them.

“Aw shit,” said a familiar rough voice, though from much farther down than he’d been expecting.

“The _fuck_ Wade?” Peter asked, as he wearily climbed down the wall, being careful of his wounded leg. “Why’re you here?”

“Damn, you were supposed to be in class,” Wade said instead.

“I’m ‘sick’,” Peter replied with finger quotes, as he walked back around the couch and looked towards the front door, searching for the reason he couldn’t find the body to Wade’s voice.

That’s when Peter finally noticed the reason Wade had sounded odd. Wade leaned heavily against the door, his shoulders pressed into the wood as he…sat down? He wore his Deadpool suit from the waist up, but from the waist down…wow, okay, he was _missing_ _both_ _legs_. And bleeding all over Peter’s newish carpet.

“Uh, I can…explain?” Wade said, voice sheepish and not at all apologetic.

“The fuck _happened_ to you?” Peter asked grumpily, as he limped over to the other man.

He bent down to put his hands under Wade’s armpits, and, with a grunt of effort, hauled him over to lean against the couch. If he was going to ruin Peter’s rug, he might as well be comfortable while doing it.

“Had a minor run-in with some Skrulls. They know how t’hit an’ make it feel good, if ya know what I mean, Cute-Pete,” Wade said, and Peter could see his leer through his mask.

“Where the fuck _were_ you?” Peter asked, finally flopping himself down on the couch. He let out a high-pitched whine of pain because he’d forgotten about his leg, and placed a gentle hand against the crown of Wade’s masked head. He used his uninjured leg as a pillow for Wade to lean on. “Me and the Avengers fought ‘em too. But I failed to see your charming panda mask.”

“I was around,” Wade replied, tilting his head back against Peter’s hand when it began to pet him. “By the by, I shoved Bea through the leg of the guy who stabbed ya. Eye for an eye, ya dig?”

Peter, for his part, just shook his head, rolled his eyes, and let out a weak laugh.

 “Well it hurts like hell, so thanks, I guess,” Peter sighed. He groggily pulled the afghan May had made him from the back of the couch and let it flop onto Wade’s non-existent lap. The bleeding had stopped, so Peter assumed he was already regenerating. Peter turned on his uninjured side, so he could look down at Wade. “I’d ask you where you’ve been this whole Goddamn time, but I’m too tired to give a fuck. M’just glad you came _home_.”

Wade made a noise in the back of his throat that could’ve been an apology or a laugh or a moan, Peter couldn’t tell, and pulled the blanket around his shoulders, leaning heavily against Peter’s thigh.

“You should really head to bed Petey-pie,” Wade said softly, as he reached up to pull Peter’s hand off his head. “Your neck’s gonna be sore in the mornin’ if ya sleep there.”

Peter snorted derisively, linked their fingers together, and leaned his cheek against the back of Wade’s hand, effectively trapping him.

“Mm, nah. S’nice here,” Peter said, turning his face to brush a quick kiss to Wade’s gloved hand.

“I’ll leave when I’m all healed, Baby Boy,” Wade whispered, his hand spasming under Peter’s attention. “Didn’t mean t’bother ya.”

“ _Stay_ ,” Peter said, squeezing Wade’s hand with his super-strength grip.

“Okay, okay, Petey-pie,” Wade soothed, “I’ll stay. Promise.”

When Peter next woke, it was to the smell of freshly made pancakes and to the sound of sizzling bacon.

He jumped off the couch and stumbled into the kitchen as fast as his injured body could carry him. He didn’t care that his leg stung, protesting its use, all he cared about was the one person he’d thought he’d dreamt up last night. The only person he’d ever met that could make pancakes smell like _that_.

The air punched out of his lungs in shock when he stopped short at the sight that greeted him.

Wade’s muscular back stood in front of the stove as he flipped a few pieces of bacon. He’d recently bathed judging by the scent of Peter’s cheap body soap that mingled with the smell of pancakes and bacon and…was that freshly squeezed orange juice on the breakfast bar? He wore a pair of Peter’s sweats (he’d regenerated his legs, it seemed) and one of Peter’s baggiest t-shirts. He flipped a pancake and hummed 3Oh!3’s “Don’t Trust Me” as he bobbed his masked head and swung his hips to the beat.

Something in Peter’s heart shuttered at the familiar sight and he _ached_ to put his arms around Wade’s waist and hug him as tight as he could and never, _ever_ let go.

As if summoned by Peter’s thoughts, Wade snapped out of his trance, spun around, and squeaked out a startled, “Baby Boy?”

The sound that came out of Peter’s mouth at hearing the habitual nickname, was a cross between a sob and a laugh and Peter couldn’t help but launch himself at Wade’s muscular chest. He clung to Wade with all his wall-crawling abilities. His arms snaked around Wade’s shoulders and legs wrapped tightly around Wade’s waist, as he hid his face in Wade’s neck and breathed in the man’s natural scent.

“I thought you were a _dream_ , Red,” Peter whispered into Wade’s neck.

Wade chuckled, and Peter felt it in his own chest. Felt it in his bones. Let it settle his nerves like it always did, even though they’d been separated for so long.

Wade slid an arm down Peter’s back and slid the other around his thigh to hold the shorter man up, not that he needed the support. He wasn’t about to slide down. He wasn’t about to let go for anything short of Aunt May suddenly having a heart attack.  

“You dream about me often, Petey-pie?” Wade asked and the genuine amusement in his voice (rather, the lack of anger or hurt or betrayal) nearly brought tears to Peter’s eyes.

Instead of answering, Peter just clung to Wade’s chest, rubbing his cheek against the skin that wasn’t hidden by Wade’s mask. Wade’s ungloved hand rubbed up and down Peter’s back, caressing his spine. Peter felt the bumpy, ever-changing ridges of the scars on Wade’s hands through the thin fabric of his shirt, and that simple customary feeling nearly made him go boneless, because it was a feeling his mind couldn’t replicate, and it meant Wade really was there.

When Peter opened his mouth to finally say something, all that came out was a wet sounding gasp.

“Pete?” Wade questioned after a moment when he started to feel the collar of his borrowed t-shirt getting wet. “Petey-pie, ya gotta calm down. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

For a moment Wade’s hands disappeared.

There were clacking sounds and Peter assumed Wade turned off the stove and plated the food. Then they were moving.

Wade sunk them down onto the couch and put his hands back on Peter’s body. Peter shuddered when Wade slid the hand that had been holding his thigh, up his ass, over his back, to the nape of his neck, where he squeezed softly. He other hand found a home in Peter’s hair and began to stroke it away from Peter’s forehead, soothingly.

“Pete, Baby, you gotta say somethin’,” Wade said softly. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

 “I just—I thought you—but then you were _here_ this morning, and I can’t…I thought I’d _lost_ you, Wade,” Peter said, his voice shaky, but less watery (he’d never been much of a crier). “I thought you’d never come _home_.”

Wade was silent for a moment and his hands even paused in their endeavor to relax Peter, before he gently placed two fingers under Peter’s chin and tried to look the younger man in the eyes. Peter resisted and used the sticky hair on his face (the stuff that kept his mask in place when he did crazy flips) to stick to Wade’s neck.

Wade sighed and went back to petting Peter’s back.

“Baby Boy, you _never_ lost me,” Wade finally said.

“But—but you never…answered my messages,” Peter pointed out as he shifted his body on Wade’s lap to a more comfortable position. He quickly realized that this much contact with Wade, and his constant body heat, was one of his favorite places to be.

“Because, at first, I’d thought you’d been callin’ to _yell_ at me, ya know. Cus what I did was pretty shitty—”

“No, you were trying to _save_ me. I was just over-reacting.”

“See, Spidey, this was _exactly_ what I was afraid of happening.”

Wade let his hands fall to Peter’s thighs, though in a respectful manner. Peter finally pulled back to look at Wade’s face (mask) but kept his hands locked behind Wade’s neck, not daring to wipe away the tear stains he felt drying on his cheeks.

“Afraid of _what_ happening? Afraid that I’d see the whole argument as my fault? Because it is, Red. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

“No. I was afraid you’d change your morals _just_ because we are friends.”

Peter tried not to focus on the use of present tense, but he couldn’t stop the tiny smile from forming on his lips. Then he frowned. Because Wade was pulling away, pushing his hands between their chests as if to push Peter off his newly healed lap, and Peter wasn’t about to have any of that shit.

They were going to talk it all out if it killed them.

He gripped Wade tighter with both his hands and his thighs.

“I…what? No. Wade, that’s not—”

“Look, Spider-babe, the point is, I was staying away because I didn’t wanna corrupt you and—”

“Wade Winston Wilson, you listen here. I am not a fuckin’ innocent baby penguin—”

“Five points to Ravenclaw for the _Glee_ reference.”

“—and I’m sure as hell not being corrupted by _you_ ,” Peter said as he pressed his forehead to Wade’s in order to push home his words like he could physically push them into Wade’s skin and make him forever understand that he was an adult and made his own Goddamned decisions. “That ship has long passed, you can thank Gwen for that. And besides, killing is still _wrong,_ Red. _Of course_ , it’s still wrong—”

“But you said—”

“But I shouldn’t have _overreacted_ the way I did, since it was a split-second decision and you’d only been trying to _save_ me,” Peter continued, rubbing his cheek against Wade’s. “Wade, you haven’t killed _anyone,_ since that guy, for over a _year_. That’s progress.”

“But what about—White said—”

“Fuck what White and Yellow say. They’re assholes,” Peter said, rolling his eyes and petting the back of Wade’s head with one of his hands to calm him down. “If you trust anyone’s word, it should be mine. Since, technically, I’m the least crazy of the two of us.”

“Your crazy matches my crazy,” Wade couldn’t help but reply, even though Peter knew it hurt a place in his chest that had belonged to Vanessa.

“Mhm, like matchin’ puzzle pieces and all that jazz,” Peter replied with a grin.

“God, I swear you were made in a computer.” Wade sighed as he leaned his head forward to rest against Peter’s sternum.

Peter laughed and said, “I've seen the horrific footage of my birth. There was no computer involved, I assure you.”

“Oh, I’m so gonna have May show that to me, one day.”

“Anyway, the _point_ is, that yes, killing is _still_ wrong, no, I’m _not_ mad at you for doin’ what you had to do because my life had been in danger—I told you I have issues with guns and that was where the freak-out came from—and mostly, I’m fuckin’ sorry I pushed you away like that. _Okay_?” Peter pulled away so that he could look into the white eyes of Wade’s mask. “I’m _so_ fuckin’ sorry, Red. You deserved better. And I promise to _be_ better.”

“Petey-pie, Baby Boy, my cutie Pete-Pete—”

“Ew, no. I _told_ you never to use that one again.”

“— _I’m_ sorry for pushing _you_ away. I get these things in m’head, sometimes, and it’s hard to get ‘em out,” Wade said quietly. “I—sometimes I can’t tell what’s real or not.”

“Then just _ask_ me, okay? No more miscommunication. These last nine months have figuratively killed me,” Peter said with a small smile, softly bumping their foreheads together. “Now take me to the kitchen, I’m _starving_.”

“As you wish,” Wade said with a smile of his own, standing and hoisting Peter back up his chest.

He grabbed both their plates and set them on the breakfast bar, then sat down at one of two tall chairs that lined it. Peter sat on top of the bar, letting his legs drape down either side of Wade’s thighs, grabbed his plate, handed Wade his, and shoveled food into his mouth. They ate in companionable silence until Peter cleared his throat and rubbed a fist against his red, irritated eyes.

“You’re gonna answer my texts now, yeah?” Peter asked, his voice uncertain. He unconsciously stuck one of his feet to Wade’s thigh, as if to make sure Wade stayed in his seat.

That action did not go unnoticed by Wade.

“Yes, Baby Boy, we’re friends,” Wade said, patting Peter’s bare foot.

Peter’s relief showed in the sagging of his shoulders.

“Great.” He looked to the side, scratched the back of his head nervously, and set his plate aside. “In that case, you uh, you wanna move in with me? You basically live here anyway.”

“Oh, Baby Boy, I thought you’d never ask,” Wade said with a grin. “Happy twentieth birthday, Petey-pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to give me prompts or request certain scenes! (P.s. It doesn't have to be SpideyPool!) For those, I ask you to hit me up at either of my Tumblr accounts:
> 
> https://ezchase.tumblr.com/
> 
> https://fandomwriterextraordinaire.tumblr.com/
> 
> The reason for this is because I'd like to start a writing blog on Tumblr, but I don't really have any prompts/motivation to start it. So, if I see my Tumblr getting messages, then it incentivizes me to keep writing, and, of course, I'd post most of them to all the accounts I've already mentioned.


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